by Nimrah Bader

Created on: March 12, 2010

The Horse that tried

Sifting sand under its hooves
Was the horse that stood waiting.
T’was a fire around him.
Twisting, turning, licking with its cool flame,
Was the fire calling out his name.

It slyly beckoned him forward,
Whispering of glory to the horse.
The horse stood waiting, tortured.
His only option, to finish the race course.

The gun fired. The gates lifted. The fire grew fierce.
The horse waited no more, and leaped;
Galloping past the heat with every breath a pierce
In his chest. Down his sides ran sweat, seeped
in his fine hair; flying like a maiden’s skirt in the breeze.

Outrun the horse did, every opponent he came across
With every fiber, every muscle and every ounce of him that willed.
But Alas! They kept him no longer, dispersing into chaos.
And the horse succumbed, his glory left unfulfilled.

The fire roared, in fiery rage.
Singeing the horse with its flame.
The horse stood now, waiting.
But the fire never called his name.

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